


The Right Touch

by caynaise



Category: BanG Dream! (Anime), BanG Dream! Girl's Band Party! (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Piano, Pre-Relationship, idk they're soft, there are feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 23:19:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18838825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caynaise/pseuds/caynaise
Summary: Like many things either fortunate or terrible, it crept up on her in the subtlest of ways.





	The Right Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Believe it or not, I've shipped these two for A While and I still can't believe Craft Egg just dropped Sweets Classroom RinAri edition on us, they're too kind?? Arisa and Rinko had to interact sooner or later in the game but the wHOLE EVENT WAS JUST. GAH. You don't need to have read That Corner of the Blooming Schoolhouse to understand this btw, yes it’s set after the event story but just know that they are student council gays

Like many things either fortunate or terrible, it crept up on her in the subtlest of ways.

Neither of them could remember who brought up the idea of walking home together. Neither of them was exactly clear-headed as it was, and Arisa had an odd itching bounce in her step, like a muscle spasm she couldn’t control. She put it down to stress. It had, after all, been quite a day. It had dragged at first, like a collapsed stage curtain unravelling with no end in sight, and the harder you tried to gather it up the more heavy, flowing material spilled from your hands. Then it had flown by in a blur of loud voices, slamming doors and papers scattering on the floor.

Beside her, Rinko was quiet. Not the sort of quiet that grew louder and more unbearable with every second it lasted—they’d had their fair share of that—but the sort that bespoke a certain solidarity. She didn’t know if she was exactly at ease, but neither was she uncomfortable. Maybe she was just too tired to care.

Of all things to break the silence, it was the very sudden, very loud and very conspicuous growling of an empty stomach that did it.

Rinko gasped, eyes wide with horror, arms shooting up to wrap around her midriff, as if that could make it any less obvious where the sound was coming from.

“I-I’m sorry!” she stammered, seeing Arisa’s startled gaze on her. “That was . . . embarrassing . . .”

“No it’s alright! I mean. I’m hungry too,” Arisa lied. It took her a long, sluggish moment to realise she was not, in fact, lying. No wonder she was so out of it. She’d been running on sheer willpower for hours.

Some time ago the sun had sunk below the horizon, and her phone’s lock screen glowed bright as she fished the device out of her bag and checked the time. “Oh jeez.” Ninety seven unread messages in the PoPiPa group chat. For a second she hesitated. Only for a second. One glance at Rinko’s gaze shifting from side to side and she locked her phone and dropped it back into her bag, resolute.

“Shall we?” she said, with the awkward formality habit and old fears had made automatic.

Rinko’s eyes flicked up briefly, and she smiled and nodded.

As they walked, sprinkles of subdued conversation punctuating the minutes that passed, Arisa sensed some sort of gradually mounting presence at her side, something restless that she couldn’t put her finger on. She ignored it.

It was only when she asked casually, “How far is your house from here?” and was met with silence that she looked over.

In the growing shadows, Rinko’s face was frozen, mouth closed, wide eyes locked in place.

“R-Rinko-senpai?”

A squeak, and Rinko sprang back to life. “Eh? I-It’s nothing! I . . .” Her hands fidgeted rapidly with the hem of her skirt. “I just . . . forgot my keys . . . and my parents won’t be home until late . . . I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Oh. Oh no.” If she weren’t so full of nervous energy herself, Arisa would be impressed at Rinko’s completely silent descent into panic. “What are you going to do?”

“I . . . don’t know.”

Arisa looked down the street, where the pavement sloped gently in the direction of the shopping district. Too frazzled to think clearly, she latched onto the first idea that sprang to mind. “Um. How does getting food sound? We could drop by the bakery before it closes, or—”

“Th-The bakery?”

Arisa mentally cursed her impulsive stupidity. Of course Rinko didn’t want to go to a store of any kind, especially not downtown in rush hour, and especially not when she had spent the past afternoon slaving away on student council business, bombarded by people from all sides.

“No I meant! I meant _I_ sort of felt like it, but I just uh, realised how tired I am so why don’t we . . .” She was babbling. “Do you—Do you want to come over to my place?” Unhelpfully, her face warmed as she said it, as if she was making a far less innocuous offer. “There’s no one there except Grandma and she’ll keep to herself,” she felt the need to justify.

“Ah—I wouldn’t want to intrude . . .”

“You won’t be, not at all!” Arisa cringed at the unnatural enthusiasm in her voice. “But only if. Only if you want to, of course.”

Rinko barely knew her. Why on earth would she want to? She was already opening her mouth to take back her words, but Rinko was faster.

“Is that . . . really okay?”

Arisa blinked. “Huh?”

“I . . . I think I’d like that, but if you’d rather I didn’t . . .”

Was she serious? “That not what I—I just thought you’d prefer someplace you were familiar with. Like. Like Ako-chan’s house or something.” The heat had spread to Arisa’s neck now. How did one go about inviting an acquaintance-turned-sort-of-friend-but-you-weren’t-sure-yet over without sounding either too desperate or too lukewarm?

While she was busy agonising internally, Rinko’s face settled. She looked right at Arisa, her gaze only wavering a little. “No, I think I want to go to yours, Ichigaya-san.”

 _Oh_. Arisa forced down the involuntary thrill that coursed through her. She understood now. Rinko’s wording made it undeniably clear that this was just another part of her quest to conquer her fears, to venture into uncharted territory one small step at a time. That was all.

She tried to hide her obvious, unwarranted blush. “O-Okay. Let’s go then.”

Turning to the street ahead, she didn’t see the other girl’s face lit with quiet delight.

* * *

Rinko had developed a headache. That was hardly surprising. Noisy students and truckloads of forms and lists did no favours for anyone. Arisa did what any responsible, sane person would do and led Rinko up to her room, setting a tray of snacks down on the coffee table.

“Um, I’ll leave you alone for a bit, yeah? Please help yourself,” she said. “Dinner should be ready soon. In the meantime I’ll be down in the basement for a bit if you need me. Go in through the warehouse—there’s a trapdoor. You’ll see it. Or just uh, text me, if you want. Otherwise I’ll be back . . . soon-ish?”

She stepped back too quickly and almost tripped over the edge of the rug.

“Ichigaya-san,” Rinko said, and she paused, one hand hovering just short of the door.

“Yes?”

“I just wanted to say . . . thank you. For all of this.”

Arisa tried to laugh. “You make it sound like a bigger deal than it is.”

Down in the basement, she took a deep breath and let it out in one confused, frustrated exhale. It wasn’t that the whole inviting business hadn’t gone well. It had gone surprisingly well, though admittedly she had been on the verge of backing out, and would have, had Rinko been less forward. No, it wasn’t that. It was . . . what was it?

She unwrapped the muesli bar she’d pocketed earlier and chewed on it slowly, scrolling through the messages on her phone. Nothing out of the ordinary. Kasumi wanted to challenge Afterglow to a game that involved swallowing ghost peppers while playing their instruments, an idea firmly vetoed by Saaya, thank God. Then something about taking milk shots instead . . . Arisa groaned, typed a quick _ABSOLUTELY NOT, someone is bound to be lactose intolerant and even those who aren’t will be stuck on the toilet for weeks_ and put her phone down. She let her fingers glide over her keyboard, listless. The muesli bar wrapper fell to her feet, and she exploded into motion, propelling her whole body with more force than was necessary into the instantly recognisable opening riff of ‘Senbonzakura’ . . . yet as she played, all she could think of was how disconnected from the music she felt, and how working her fingers was doing nothing to dispel the jitters in her stomach.

It was that same inexplicable itch she’d had on the walk home, whose source she couldn’t pin down, that urge to jump and shout and . . . smile. She bit down on her lower lip when she felt it coming on, puckered up her mouth, but it was no use. She couldn’t fight it.

Eventually, she managed to lose herself in the song. She played it all the way through, eyes closed, brow furrowed, conjuring in her mind the other sounds that were supposed to be there but weren’t, filling the empty spaces around her with richness and colour.

The last ringing glissando faded into silence and she relaxed, hands sliding off the keys and falling to her sides. With a sigh, she straightened up.

“Gah!”

How Rinko had opened the trapdoor and climbed down the bookshelf that doubled as a staircase without making a sound was beyond her. Rinko had simply stood there, clutching one arm with her other hand, eyes fixed intensely on the floor, until Arisa yelled out.

“Ah! S-Sorry, I should’ve knocked.”

“No, it’s fine! I’m fine. Yeah. Perfectly.” Arisa cleared her throat. “So uh, how’re you feeling?”

“Oh . . . g-good. Better.” Rinko loosened her hold on her arm and made her way over to the keyboard, treading lightly, as if the floor would give under her feet at any moment. “Forgive me for barging in, but . . . that was lovely, Ichigaya-san.”

“Eh?” Normally Arisa would either flush and snap at the person making that sort of remark, or stammer out a few incoherent words of denial. Whichever it was, the vague discomfort that prompted her to do so was the same.

But this wasn’t one of her bandmates, or just another senpai she had to treat with saccharine deference simply because they were older than her. Rinko was different. It scared her a little bit, how someone just as solitary and even more timid than herself could tear down her defences without trying, or even intending to. No, ‘tear’ was the wrong word, implying Rinko was forceful in some way, like Kasumi was. Not that Kasumi’s way was bad, though she’d say the opposite to Kasumi’s face, naturally. But with Rinko . . . it was like whatever inhibitions Arisa had evaporated of their own accord.

“Well. Th-Thank you,” she mumbled, rubbing the back of her neck, “but it was pretty rough around the edges, I’d say. I’m sure you of all people can find a lot of spots that need fixing.”

A microphone she had left plugged in to the keyboard and forgotten to switch off hummed in the background.

“You know . . .” said Rinko. “That isn’t always important. Beethoven favoured feeling over accuracy.”

That rang a bell, somewhere in the back of Arisa’s mind, where hazy recollections of star-shaped stickers, foreign tempo markings and a glossy gold label reading _YAMAHA_ lay. “Oh. Oh yeah, I’ve heard that.”

“Ah . . . that’s right, you would have.”

“I know what he was getting at, but . . . as much of a joke as it probably sounds like with someone as good as you in the room, mistakes bother me. A lot,” Arisa admitted. “Perfectionism rearing its ugly head as always, what can I say.”

“No, don’t worry . . . I’m like that too. It isn’t necessarily a bad thing.” A pause. Rinko seemed to be working up her resolve. “If you want, I—I can give you a few pointers.”

The complete lack of judgement in her soft voice drew Arisa in, like a siren’s song. Something in her started to ache. “Really? That would be amazing, if. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Rinko stepped behind the keyboard, careful, so careful. For a moment she hovered there, eyes lighting up slowly as they swept over the panels and buttons. “You’re a very good player, Ichigaya-san. The main thing I would say is . . . you’re sort of tight.”

“Tight?”

Rinko nodded. “It’s easiest to get the sound you want when the muscles you don’t need to use are relaxed. Tensing up constantly . . . it only increases the exertion required, on top of the demands of the song. It tires you out faster . . . and makes a lot of things feel more difficult than they need to be.”

“Oh! I see.” That didn’t exactly come as a surprise, even if Arisa couldn’t say she’d ever been aware of it. She lived life like a taut wire—why would this be any different?

“It’s a struggle for me as well,” Rinko assured her. “It’s . . . intuitive, to tense up. I often tell myself to . . . get my hand in position for the next note before it’s too late, but . . . that’s overthinking. It’s scary, but you need to have faith that you’ll land in the right place. You have to trust yourself . . . and jump.”

Arisa dropped her gaze, fingers curling up, digging into the palms of her hands. But her nails were always trimmed too short nowadays to give her much of a distraction.

So be it. No looking back. She let her fingers unfurl. “Trust, huh? I’ve never been good at that.”

“That’s okay. It’s . . . hard, I know. Learning not to rely on old habits is always hard.”

“Yeah. I guess so.” The yearning ache grew. She ran her sweaty palms down the sides of her skirt a couple of times and positioned them over the keyboard again.

“So, this part,” she said, fingers flying through a couple of runs. “I should focus on the whole picture, not getting single notes right, is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes! Exactly. Think of it as a series of phrases . . . like waves. One continuous movement each time.” In her eagerness to demonstrate her point, Rinko reached for Arisa’s arm with a surprising spontaneity. Halfway there she caught herself and stopped, drew her hand back to her chest. “Can I . . . is it okay if I touch you?”

People didn’t usually ask for permission. How did Rinko _know_? How did she see Arisa, inside and out, so clearly?

Still, although asking may have been a little more than common courtesy, the question was an innocent one. Arisa knew that. Knowing did not stop her from blushing right down to the roots of her hair.

“Y-Yeah,” she managed to get out. “Go ahead.”

“Are you . . . sure?”

“Yeah.”

Rinko laid gentle fingers on her arm. It might have set her on edge, but Rinko was entirely focused on the advice she was giving, not Arisa herself. “Rotate your wrist more . . . like this.” Her hands guided Arisa’s wrist in a counterclockwise circle. “The fingers will follow . . . as long as you’re not locked up anywhere else.”

Unfortunately, when she tried it, she was quite locked up everywhere. Rinko moved behind her and put her hands on her shoulders, pressing down gently. “Try to relax, starting from up here . . . right down to your wrists. Only your fingers should be firm.”

“Right. Okay.” Arisa could hear the blood pounding in her ears. The only thing she had going for her was the knowledge that Rinko seldom looked at people’s faces directly. She wouldn’t look, wouldn’t pry. Slowly, Arisa breathed out, eyelids falling closed, visualising all her pent-up restless energy seeping out through the floorboards.

“That’s it,” came Rinko’s soothing whisper in her ear. “You don’t have to . . . work so hard all the time. It . . . should be easier now.”

Eyes still shut, she felt for the keys and played the section again. The sound sprang from her fingertips, bright, clear, effortless. Her thumb snagged on a wrong note, but it barely registered in her mind.

She gaped, eyes shooting open, whipping around to face Rinko, who quickly took her hands off Arisa’s shoulders and stepped back.

“Wow. I—I didn’t realise that could make such a difference.” Arisa shook her head, her laugh a little jerky, uneven, as if she’d been out of practice. “The more you know.”

Rinko smiled, and said, “Sometimes . . . it’s the little things you don’t notice.”

She would say that.

Maybe Arisa spent so much time trying to block out everything that reminded her of what she ought to be that she missed what simply _was_.

A sharp rapping from the floor above made them both jump.

“Arisa!” Her grandmother’s voice drifted, muffled, through the closed trapdoor. “Dinner.”

“Coming!” She shut off her keyboard, shoulder brushing Rinko’s in her haste. “Are you hungr—Oh.” Of all the questions she could’ve thought to ask—she must have lost an impressive number of brain cells in a mere afternoon. “Stupid question, don’t mind me.”

“I could eat a whole armoured boss,” Rinko sighed.

For a feverish second, Arisa thought her lost brain cells had affected her hearing. “A _what_?”

“N . . . N-N-Nothing!”

One glance at poor Rinko’s flushed face and Arisa smiled so hard that her eyes watered. What had gotten into her?

Later she would tell herself that she must’ve been delirious from hunger and exhaustion. There was no other explanation for why she did what she hadn’t done for years and shyly, earnestly held out a hand.

For a moment in which she didn’t dare breathe, the air was still. Then, just as uncertain, Rinko’s slender hand slipped into hers.

Outside, the world turned, none the wiser.

But for once, the world didn’t bother her.

**Author's Note:**

> Rinko thought about Beethoven in the last Bandori fic I wrote too I need to stop doing that. But it was appropriate in both instances ok


End file.
